


Ultraviolet Wings

by Saerzion



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Drama, F/M, Fallout Kink Meme, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-20
Updated: 2014-08-31
Packaged: 2018-02-05 12:53:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1819177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saerzion/pseuds/Saerzion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Swank’s fixation on a heavily scarred prostitute leads him to uncover several truths about her obscured background in the hours preceding her disappearance. Years later, the veracities come full circle when a Courier arrives as a vindictive force on the Strip, and only Swank recognizes the marks on her back, which had once belonged to the fallen angel who still lived in his dreams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

** Transparent **

Some would call it obsession. Others might label it infatuation.

But he referred to it as captivation.

Not necessarily with her features. Her beauty could have existed once, had it not been for the way her right eye puckered halfway shut, the angry scar tissue of badly healed chemical burns stretching from her hairline to her cheekbone over that side of her face, and the premature gray streak that ran down the left part of her long auburn hair. Coupled with a bony, malnourished body, her appearance left much to be desired at first, second, and even third glance.

However, Swank never claimed to care about any of those things.

He watched her in the way she moved, the way she smiled, her perfectly shaped lips erasing all physical imperfections in his eyes. An innocence lingered about her despite her background, and he would have paid all his caps in one go if she'd ever agreed to tell him more than a single sentence at a time about herself. He sated his carnal needs inside her, but no matter the number of sessions, his curiosity still hungered.

One by one, she revealed snippets of her story, the details so vague that he may as well hadn't bothered to ask.

The scars on her face? "A client got angry."

The early gray hair? "Thyroid hormone imbalance."

The skeletal physique? "Look around; prostitutes get chems, not food."

And yet she differed from the others. Whether she fared better or worse was subjective, but he'd learned enough to know that the Omerta leader singled her out, kept her segregated from the rest. Her room sat at the far balcony overlooking the Gomorrah courtyard, locked during her working hours and accessible only by a special key given to select VIP clients. As Benny's right-hand man and the co-owner of the Tops, Swank was one of the few who had that privilege. Even those sadistic brutes Cachino and Canden never had access to her, and he preferred it that way.

Throughout the Strip, no one understood why Nero treated her like a prized possession. Given her looks, limited availability, and high price, clients weren't exactly lining up when cheaper and more attractive whores strutted around the casino floors. And if he were honest, he'd had better lays out in the Wastes back before the Boot Riders became the Chairmen.

But something about her had ensnared him from the beginning, the thousand-yard stare of her good eye luring him in the instant he first set foot in Gomorrah. An impulsive decision to ease his pent-up tension turned into a dire mission to meet her, touch her, have her. And when she'd turned to wander back to her secluded walls, he saw the two long scars carved vertically between her shoulder blades.

From that moment on, Swank spent a significant amount of his time and salary pursuing the truth behind the scarred angel that had fallen in their midst.

On this particular day, he marched into Gomorrah, attempting to shake off his tempestuous mood. Recent developments at the Tops—centering on clashes with Benny over administration and his constant "business-related" departures—left Swank's nerves frazzled and his body eager to blow off steam. He ambled up to the receptionist, slapping a handful of caps on the counter.

"Is she free?"

The jaded woman sent him a blank look. "Again? Ever thought about trying out any of the others? Joana and Dazzle are our best—"

"Save the sales pitch because she's the only reason I'm even a recurring customer at this grimy joint, you dig?"

Sighing, the receptionist counted the caps and signed him in on the notepad next to her terminal before handing him the key. "Fine, but it's going to be a bit of a wait. Nero has her for another half hour to an hour."

Swank paused, a wave of displeasure and surprise washing over him at the news. "Nero? Ain't this a first."

"Oh, honey, no it's not. She's his favorite by far; probably the only one he's ever 'partaken' in," the receptionist surmised. "Why do you think he keeps her under lock and key from the masses? You're lucky he's even willing to share with you."

"Yeah… I guess that makes sense," he replied, taking the key as he frowned over at the doorway leading to the main floor. "Didn't think he'd take up her time when she was on the clock, though."

"Well the boss seems to be under a lot of pressure lately, always muttering about Gabriel this, Gabriel that. He needed some fast relief, and she was his only choice."

Swank quirked an eyebrow at the unfamiliar name. "Who's Gabriel?"

She shrugged. "No one outside the original family actually knows. Word is, Gabriel was supposed to be the next leader of the Slither Kin, but Nero took over when they became the Omertas. I'm guessing he's worried Gabriel will be back to settle the score."

He nodded, quickly losing interest in the Omerta history lesson. "Yeah, great. I'm gonna head over to the courtyard. Knowing him, she's going to need a pair of tender arms after he roughs her up."

The woman on the other side of the front desk watched him for several seconds. "Hey, Swank, word of advice. Don't get too attached. Bottom line is she's a hooker, and whatever you think you have with her, just remember: you're nothing but her job."

He gritted his teeth at that and stalked out of the lobby without answering. Any fool with a working brain could recognize his hopelessness in that regard. What else explained his frequent visits to this filthy pit of debauchery and vice? Only _she_ made the establishment bearable to wade through, tugging his heart on a string that kept him coming back. Even knowing of his own ill-fated fixation, he always complied with the will of the siren, only too happy to succumb to the sin.

The perpetual smell of sex, smoke, and alcohol wafted through the entire ground level of the casino. Swank passed by the roulette tables and slot machines, where several compulsive gamblers sat like drooling zombies as their caps dwindled away to nothing. He shook his head at the sight. The Tops had its share of risk-taking drones, but none so far gone and out of touch with reality that they ended up like the regulars here. He loosened the tie of his beige pinstripe suit while proceeding past the blazing inferno in the center, casting his disparaging gaze around the gaudy neo-Persian décor. Once again, less than five minutes spent in this place validated his opinion of Gomorrah's status as the closest thing to hell on the Strip.

In fitting progression, his short elevator ride took him to Brimstone, the premier club featuring an abundance of jiggling tits and shaking asses. Occasionally, a male stripper would whip out his dick just to switch things up, and Swank found himself the unwilling audience of one such occasion as he walked past the stage of pole dancers and nearly got himself thwacked on the head by a daring ghoul's abnormally long shaft. Hurrying through the stifling and pungent room, he pushed past the riled up crowd and made it to the doors to the courtyard.

Fresh—well, fresh _er_ —air greeted him as soon as he stepped outside. The orange streaks of the late afternoon sky reflected in the central pool, lending a certain alluring beauty to the surrounding architecture of Gomorrah's brothel section. Huts lined the perimeter on the ground, some of them occupied while others remained available for use. He ignored the propositions of the prostitutes who spotted him, making his way to the stairs on the right to climb up to the balcony level. A number of patrons sat with their selected company on the benches and cushions against the walls. They paid him no heed as he strode by, and eventually he reached her door at the far end of the premises, a steel-bolted construct that stood out from the rest.

Swank leaned back against the nearby railing, tuning out the chatter and customary noises of gratification around the area. He ran his fingers through his pompadour hairstyle as he waited for close to an hour, the knowledge of the activity inside only straining his temper. He had known from the start that she serviced other people, but as time went on in this fictitious dance of courtship, he'd grown less tolerant of the facts and verities comprising her profession. His possessiveness aside, she deserved better than this.

And had it been up to him, he would have taken her away from this life.

He lit a cigarette to take his mind off the mounting stress, but his attention snapped to her door when a loud thump resounded from within. The bolt released not ten seconds later, and it swung open, emitting the heavy scent of musk. Nero appeared in the doorway, zipping up his fly and straightening his blazer. He caught sight of Swank immediately, and his typical scowl deepened as he trudged by.

"Figured you'd show up today. Is anyone even running that bore of a place next door with you always here and Benny always out of town?" Nero asked in his gruff timbre, sizing up the other man.

Swank kept his cool as he straightened, blowing a cloud of smoke into the Omerta leader's face. "You let me worry about my joint. I'm just here for her."

A menacing quality flickered across Nero's expression. "Better watch yourself on my turf, Chairman. One wrong move, and I'll have Big Sal rip off your balls and chuck 'em across the street to the Lucky 38. Just a friendly reminder."

Swank flicked his cigarette to the ground and crushed it under his shoe. "Like you mobster finks scare me. I'm the king of high rollers, pal. And I'm callin' that bluff."

The temperature dropped to frigid levels between them, their mutual antagonism increasing in the span of an instant.

Nero held his glower for a tense minute before snickering. "All right, tough guy. Count your lucky fucking stars you have the means to back up that smart mouth. You get a pass, but only because you're basically forking over half your casino's caps to me. Just for one girl." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder to the open doorway, a sneer stretching his lips. "She's gonna take a bit to pull herself together. I did a hell of a number on her, but don't worry; she's a professional and won't let a little soreness hinder her performance."

Swank's jaw tightened as Nero let out a harsh bark of laughter and sauntered away. Pushing the encounter from his mind, he entered the room and shut the door behind him, locking it. As his vision adjusted to the dim interior, the soft tunes of a classic song drifted to his ears from the radio on the bedside table. One window on the opposite wall filtered in the fading light, allowing him to survey the small space. Clothes and empty wine bottles littered the floor, the various surfaces splintered and in disrepair. He continued to peer around until a sound from the bathroom drew him in that direction.

Stepping around the mess, he headed over and found her in front of the cracked mirror hanging above the sink, the two red scars on her back contrasting against the pallor of her complexion.

She wore nothing, giving him an unhindered view of the ribs and hip bones sticking out prominently beneath her skin. For several moments, he gazed at the stiffness in her posture as she ran a brush through her straight auburn hair, the streak of gray catching the room's luminescence. A nasty bruise covered a good portion of her lower back, and only when he uttered a sound of indignation did she notice his reflection in the fractured glass.

"Swank!" she exclaimed, brightening and setting down the brush. Moving her long bangs to cover the disfigured portion of her face, she pivoted and flew into his waiting arms. "I didn't think you'd be back so soon."

Her melodic voice soothed his ire at once, and he held her close as he caught the fragrance of something floral on her tresses. "What can I say? There's just no staying away from you, doll." He tried to lift her chin, but she turned her head to the side, as usual. "Come on, I haven't seen you in two whole days. Look at me?"

"The lights first," she said, using her palm to keep her bangs in place.

"How many times do I gotta say it?" Swank demanded as he brought up a hand to move hers away from her cheek. Although she put up little resistance, she flinched when he brushed his thumb along the puckered lid of her right eye. "You don't have to hide. Not from me."

"But—"

A small gasp left her throat when he pressed his lips to the harsh scar tissue over her temple. Kissing a sweet trail to her cheekbone, he wished he could erase the insecurities she tried to keep discreet. While she never complained about her looks or conditions, her self-consciousness was evident in the way she carried herself. He found it both endearing and sad, the fragile balance that defined her character in this unforgiving world.

Her muscles relaxed little by little as he showed her exactly what she meant to him, his fingertips tracing the prominent hypertrophic scarring between her shoulder blades. They intrigued him, those scars, resembling the aftermath of wings that had been ripped out of her body. An unlikely explanation, he realized, but the truth remained a mystery.

"You ever going to tell me the story behind these?" he murmured against her ear, tapping the raised flesh on her back.

She went rigid again and pulled away, but then hesitated, something churning in her deep brown eyes. "Maybe. There isn't much of a story, though."

"Just tell me you're an angel that dropped from heaven and get it over with," he quipped. "That's my guess and I'm willing to believe it."

A few beats went by as she studied him. "Not exactly, but it's a pretty fitting comparison."

Growing somber, Swank regarded her in the subsequent quiet, linking the allusion to a more viable reality. She stared back at him in turn, the weariness and hardship written all over her features. If only she really could sprout wings and leave this cage. Instead, she seemed to have accepted her demise within it.

He stroked a gentle finger along her jawline. "Why won't you let me take you away from this place?" he asked for possibly the hundredth time since they'd met.

She had never given him a reason, and he expected this instance to be no different.

But suddenly, the response came forth.

"I owe a debt. A big one," she said, taking him aback with her new willingness to discuss her circumstances. A haunted expression appeared for a fleeting moment, but vanished once he blinked. "Not to Nero, even if he's the one collecting. It's to… someone else."

Swank's eyebrows shot up as he processed the new information. "What, you owe money? Is that it? Is that why… wait."

It clicked. His stomach dropped as the dots connected. The price and availability Nero had assigned to her despite her limited marketability. The restrictions placed upon her clientele. The imposed seclusion and isolation. In order to hamper her income? Keep her from paying off the debt?

Keep her trapped here?

She read the conclusion on his face. "It's more than just money, but yeah. This is why someone like me gets the VIP clients. The ones who would even want me, anyway."

A flash of anger struck through him, and he released her as he whirled toward the exit. "Well, fuck that bastard. Damn it, Nero," he seethed. "I don't care what the balance is. I'll pay it off, and then we're getting you the hell outta here—"

Her hand gripped his sleeve, halting him in his tracks. "It's _more_ than just money," she repeated with a note of desperation. "It's a punishment, an example of our consequences, a reminder of the family's power. And I've put up with it. I've put up with it for years, but…"

He turned back, straining to hear the rest of her murmured, anguished sentence.

_"Enough is enough."_

The uncharacteristic inflection of her pitch gave him pause. He detected it, the change in the air. An undefinable element had seeped into the premises, compressing the shifting atmosphere, starting the clock.

An unspoken countdown had begun.

Swank gazed at her as unease and sympathy mingled in his gut. "What did you even do that got you into this?"

But she had closed off again, standing there like a nude statue. And when she next spoke, her voice carried a dark undertone. "You wanted to know about the scars?"

Rotating, she moved her hair aside to give him an unhindered view of the marks on her back. Their color seared against her skin, beckoning him forward in want of his touch. But as he approached to heed the call, her next words wove through his mind, binding and grasping in their fervent wake.

"They were a message from Nero. To tell the world that I will never fly free."

A taut sensation formed in his chest. He witnessed her burden in the slump of her shoulders, understood the symbolism of the figurative clipped wings. More questions replaced the ones answered, such as why she would lie down and willingly resign herself to Nero's mercy (or rather, lack thereof). Whether guilt or responsibility played a part and led her to believe she deserved it for whatever she'd done, the fact remained that _nothing_ warranted this dismal fate.

And he intended to liberate her someday, but for now, he would offer the only thing he could.

Closing in, he embraced her from behind and brought his lips to her neck. She started, but then sank against him, sighing when he dragged his palms up over her waist. He buried his nose in her hair while cupping her bare breasts, listening to her moan as he whispered again and again that he was here, he would help her, he would save her…

Because he loved her.

She spun around in his arms and grabbed his tie to tug him toward the worn mattress. He followed eagerly, allowing her to shove him down on his back while she climbed atop and straddled him. His body reacted at once to her lead, and he groaned when she rubbed at the hardening bulge in his pants.

"Treat this like it's the last time," she told him, unbuckling his belt. "It'll be more passionate that way."

Although he thought the request peculiar, he reached up to skim his knuckles over her cheek. "Well, if it's passion you want, how about finally telling me your name so I can call it out when you get me off?"

She stopped at the half-joked inquiry. "I was given my name for its meaning, but calling it out might be weird."

Swank chuckled as he tucked her hair behind her ear. "Come on, it can't be that bad. Why, what's the meaning?"

He inhaled sharply when her fingers dove into his boxers to grip him.

"I was named after one of the four archangels. It means 'The Messenger,'" she replied, stroking him and smirking while he struggled to maintain his concentration.

Most people would shut the hell up by this point, but her rare openness in disclosing these details kept him talking.

"So you really are one of them angels, then," he grunted through clenched teeth, his blunt nails digging into her thighs as she continued her ministrations. "Fuck…"

"Not so much, but you can call me Brie for short."

"Brie? Sure thing," he gasped when she bent down, and he felt her warm breath on his cock. "W-what's it short for?"

She ceased all movement, leaving his libido crying for release. The air shifted again, and slowly, she raised her head.

Her good eye peered up at him, somehow no longer _Omerta_ , but _Slither Kin_.

"Gabriel."

He remembered it.

He remembered it even as he groaned out the short nickname minutes later.

Even after she went missing that same night.

Even when Nero went on a rampage, sending his minions to track her down.

But she had disappeared.

She and her transparent wings.

She’d never needed him to save her, having been three steps ahead to escape on her own terms. He had missed the foreshadowing, paid too little attention to the signs. And now he had no choice but to move on without her.

Because in the years that followed, “Brie” never returned.


	2. Chapter 2

** Infrared **

Swank looked up from his documents to glance at the two busty young women at the other end of the front counter. Their false smiles accompanied titters of flirtatious laughter, which dazzled the Chairman greeter into allowing them inside without further inspection. Swank sighed and set down his pen, exasperated.

"Hold it," he called, striding over before they made it past the lobby. "You broads got any weapons on you?"

"No, sir…" the first one drawled as she fluttered her eyelashes at him. "What are you gonna do, search us?"

After casting a brief, stern glare at the greeter, Swank turned back to the women and gestured to their skirts. "Don't have to. I could hear your thigh holsters from a mile away. Hand over your pieces for safekeeping or walk out the door. We got regulations here at the Tops."

Their smiles evaporated at once, replaced by annoyed scowls as they reached down and removed the concealed firearms.

"We just wanted to have something to defend ourselves with," the second woman grumbled, shoving her pistol at him. "After what happened at Gomorrah last week, who the fuck would be okay with going into a casino unarmed?"

Swank frowned as he took the handguns. "Well, I can guarantee you ladies that you ain't got nothin' to worry about while you're here. We've got the sharpest, most capable cats patrolling the place, so just relax and enjoy yourselves. The Chairmen are watching your backs."

They still appeared peeved and anxious, but moved on without argument. Satisfied, he returned to the desk and stared pointedly at the sheepish greeter, whose name he couldn't remember.

"Yeah, sorry about that, boss—"

"That could've been a fatal mistake on your part, rookie," Swank told him, turning back to his paperwork. "Letting those girls sweet-talk you like that. How do you think the Omertas got shanked?"

The other Chairman rubbed the back of his neck. "I know. It won't happen again. I hear it's a madhouse over there with Nero and his lackeys dead. Definitely don't want that happenin' here."

"Then do your job right, and we shouldn't have a problem."

They lapsed into silence as the minutes ticked by, the sounds of ringing slot machines and boisterous chatter drifting over from the main floor. Swank shuffled his papers and peered down at the numbers on the pages, trying to maintain his concentration on accounting even as his mind wandered to the situation at Gomorrah. All the talk circulating around the Strip never strayed far from his thoughts, and the women's untimely reminder only brought the issue back to the forefront.

He pressed his lips together as he recalled numerous mentions of someone known only as the "Courier," some unidentified vagabond that had turned Gomorrah upside down in a blaze of gunfire and explosions. Word on the street painted this individual as something of a Strip-wide menace that interfered with countless New Vegas affairs. Mr. House had allegedly taken a professional interest in this new force, but the other factions—from the NCR to the remainder of the Three Families—were advised to take caution. The Omertas had already paid the price.

And now the rest of New Vegas had no choice but to watch and wait with bated breath, for speculation pointed to the Tops as next on the list.

His line of sight darted to the entrance when it opened again, and he crossed his arms as Benny strode in with his entourage of bodyguards, trademark checkered suit looking as immaculate as ever. The Chairmen leader paused and surveyed the lobby, one hand resting in his pocket as the other brought a cigarette to his lips. And when his gaze locked with Swank's, he made a beeline for the front counter, his presence drawing all attention in the room.

"Everything good here?" Benny demanded.

Swank motioned to the doorway behind the large centerpiece. "See for yourself. We got an influx of Gomorrah's regulars, but security's tailing them close to make sure they don't start any trouble. Other than that, same old."

Benny nodded, glancing around. "If they do start anything, have the boys throw 'em out pronto. Hope whatever's left of the Omertas get their shit together real soon because I want their slack-jawed rats out of my casino." He took a moment to stare at the doors and then sidled closer over the surface of the counter, lowering his voice. "Actually, I got an errand for ya now that I think about it. Go pay a visit to the ruins of that hooker nest next door."

"You kidding me? I've got a lot of work to get through—"

"It's a quick job, and I need my right-hand man to do it," Benny insisted, flicking cigarette ash onto Swank's papers. "Listen, ask around over there, get a description of that 'Courier.' I wanna off that fink soon as they come anywhere near the Tops, dig?"

Swank hesitated at the note of anxiety in the other man's words, the subtle twitch beneath his eye. _The big boss looks nervous as hell. I get if he's worried about our joint being targeted next, but what's with that shifty look?_

"Well, I guess I can head over for a few minutes," Swank relented, studying his face. "But don't expect nothin' concrete. I don't have the same contacts there that I used to."

Benny's mouth stretched into a sneer. "Oh, that's right. Some whore a few years back had you wrapped around her little finger, hey? Who knows, maybe she came back without telling ya. Right in time for the slaughter, that is."

Swank stiffened, but declined to answer as Benny chortled and sauntered away, bodyguards in tow. He watched them disappear around the corner and then shook his head, brushing the ashes off the counter. The two co-owners butting heads hardly signified any serious turmoil in the casino's internal affairs, but this time Swank found it difficult to shake the feeling that something lay amiss in Benny's business.

Not to mention he could have done without the reference to _her_.

A dull throb crept through his sternum as ill-suppressed images of long auburn hair and marred skin flashed across his vision. Swank grappled with the returning sense of loss before burying it back down into the depths of his subconscious, unwilling to give in to the familiar dejection. He still had a host of things to do and his pride to keep in check.

Gathering his paperwork into a stack, he tucked it into one of the desk shelves and clapped a hand on the greeter's shoulder as he passed by. "You heard the man. I'll be back in a bit, and there better not be any incidents while I'm gone because of you. Hear?"

"Yeah, I've got this, don't worry. No pretty face or cleavage will get through me without some major scrutiny. You can count on that, boss."

"Just… try not to pull any stupid shit that'll get your ass fired, rookie."

Swank crossed the distance to the front doors and returned a few greetings from several other Chairmen before exiting. Immediately, he met the flashing neon lights of the Strip, which illuminated the evening sky and captured his eyes in the roving hues. The bustling nightlife had roared into full swing, and he dawdled for a second to take in the sights, now glad for the break from his desk job. No matter how long he'd resided in New Vegas, he never tired of its unrivaled splendor and endless streets of activity.

He shoved his hands into his pockets as he ambled down the road to the left, the moment of aesthetic appreciation gone as soon as his gaze landed on the malfunctioning Gomorrah sign. While the exterior of the building remained mostly intact, a considerable number of windows on the suites level had shattered. He mulled over the information he'd garnered from various sources as he continued walking, curious to see the smoking embers of the Omerta administration in the aftermath of their downfall.

However, at the same time, he recognized his own reluctance to confront the torrid memories that awaited him within those walls.

Pushing through the creaking metal gate, he made his way across the vacant lot toward the front entrance. The tilted doors hung open on broken hinges, giving him a view of the dim interior before he stepped into the threshold. Only muffled chatter and distant footfalls echoed throughout the casino floors, lending a certain eeriness to the dark atmosphere. Candles illuminated the lobby in place of the shattered light fixtures, and he squinted around uncertainly just as the sound of clacking heels preceded the receptionist's appearance from the main floor.

"Thought I heard someone come in," she panted, out of breath as she came to a stop in front of him. When her pupils adjusted to the lighting and focused on his face, she placed a hand on her hip and scoffed. "Well, I'll be damned, Swank. Haven't seen you here in ages. What can I do for you now that Gomorrah is currently out of commission?"

He shifted his weight and nodded to the dried bleach stains all over the linoleum, presumably where pools of blood used to be. "I was just stopping by to check out the damage for myself. Too bad about the big name Omertas getting wiped out. The Courier's rep is pretty notorious around the Strip by this point," he commented in a casual tone. "Kind of weird how there isn't a set description for that crazy cat."

The receptionist regarded him in silence for a few moments. "Yeah, she's pretty elusive when she needs to be, I'll give her that. Even kept her face hidden in the shadows when she was tearin' up the place."

Swank cocked his head. "She?" _It's a woman?_

"Say," the receptionist suddenly remarked, straightening as if recalling something, "it's actually a good thing you showed up today. Remember your old paramour? That girl you kept coming back for?"

Swank tensed. _Brie…_

"Nero kept her room the way she left it after she vanished, but we're planning on clearing it out for when we get this place up and running again." She reached into her pocket and produced a set of keys, selecting a familiar one and tossing it to him. "If you're feeling sentimental, go ahead and take whatever you want before we trash everything inside. I know how fixated you were on her. Funny thing is, the Courier seemed intent on breaking into that room, too."

All thoughts of the task Benny had assigned him fled his mind as he gazed down at the small rusted key in his palm. The receptionist excused herself to return to her duties and left him standing alone in the flickering candlelight of the lobby. Apprehension and anticipation both wormed their way through his stomach. He considered the offer, asking himself whether he truly wished to break the seal on his Pandora's Box of history in those quarters.

And then his legs went into motion of their own accord, taking him through the areas of reconstruction all the way to the empty courtyard. He followed the well-traversed path to his destination and dawdled in front of the door, the surge of bitter nostalgia consuming him when he thought of his last meeting with Brie here. He'd known the fragility of the connection that tied him to her, but he couldn't have predicted how abruptly it would snap.

Coming to terms with his delusion and enthrallment had taken years of self-reflection and avoidance of the source. Even more difficult to accept was the reality that she never reciprocated the depth of his affections, a truth he had realized, but tried to disregard. And now, faced with the prospect of revisiting this past, he wondered how well he could keep the inevitable misery at bay.

Steeling himself, he lurched forward before cowardice won out. His fingers twisted the key into the lock and pushed the door open. Reminiscence and longing hit him at once in response to her lingering scent, the faint floral quality infusing the premises. He scanned the dusty surfaces and clutter, spotting a few of his old ties and jackets left behind in the corners. It was a scene seemingly frozen in time; fit for a ghost, and a stab to his heart.

Leaving the door open to keep the light flowing inside, he strode farther in and examined the items Brie had left behind. Nothing of value caught his eye—only clothing and cheap baubles given as gifts by clients—but everything about them was overwhelmingly _her_. While he didn't intend on hauling any of her things back with him to the Tops, he figured he would have a last look before finally closing this chapter of his life for good.

His steps tread lightly across the floor as he took care to disturb as little as possible, more out of principle than practicality. He went to retrieve his own belongings, slinging them over his arm and coughing at the clouds of dust that flew into the air. When he waved away the irritating particles, his elbow knocked over a wooden trinket box sitting on top of one wardrobe. It hit the floor with a crash, its various objects spilling over his shoes.

Swank muttered an expletive and bent down to gather them back into the container, but stopped when the words on a wrinkled and torn piece of paper drew his gaze amidst the pile. Dropping his articles, he used both hands to straighten out the page as inquisitiveness took over, rising to his feet while reading the faded text. A taut feeling spread across his shoulders when he comprehended the nature of the document.

**_Cipher Certificate of Adoption_ **

_This is to certify that Brianna, to be renamed Gabriel, has been formally adopted by Elder Giovani of the Slither Kin tribe on this day of June 18, 2261. Other adoptive family members include mother, Catalina, and one brother, Nero._

Swank gaped at the form, a new wave of discombobulated thoughts swarming his head. "Adoption…?"

Everything he'd known about Brie, every interaction he'd witnessed between her and Nero, now came with a new disconcerting perspective. He staggered back as he swiped a palm over his forehead, thinking of the shroud she'd cloaked over her background, the way she had allowed herself to remain imprisoned in this room for years, and the debt she had mentioned during that last day with him. It all began to fall into place.

"Holy shit," he murmured, reading over the certificate at least twenty more times before stuffing it into his pocket. _Don't know if I can let this go now even with both Brie and Nero gone. Everything between them was more fucked up than I'd thought…_

He loitered in the room for a long while, sifting through the rest of her personal effects for any further indication of her history with the family. When nothing else came up, he let out a sigh and closed the drawers of the wardrobe. A cold weight settled over him as he turned to the exit. Brie, Brianna, or Gabriel—each incarnation still lived there in spirit, bidding him to stay, taunting him for his weakness.

But even he knew the folly of losing himself in this place.

Deciding to simply abandon his things, he pivoted and made his way out, still reeling from the unexpected discovery. In a haze, he ventured back through the casino and half-listened to the murmuring between the remaining senior members of the Omertas. They spoke to each other in the corners, exchanging grim musings that reached his ears, but failed to penetrate the cloud around his comprehension. He dismissed the nagging sensation near the base of his skull, paying no attention to anything except the havoc stirring inside.

Brie's aversion to disclosing her secrets made sense, but he wished she'd held him in enough regard to lower her walls and share her troubles for commiseration. He'd known so little of the real demons that haunted her past and present, the actual depth of misery she lived with day after day. She must have considered him a burden, forced to put up with his oblivious pining when he'd had no inkling of her circumstances behind the escort façade. Wherever Brie had ended up, he hoped she'd found solace and respite in the years since her escape.

But if only she'd opened up to him, he would have done something— _anything_ —to stop the scars from spreading into her heart.

The loud tunes of the Strip blared over him when he emerged from Gomorrah. He barely registered the short journey back to the Tops, thinking only of the slight weight of the crumpled adoption certificate in his pocket. Although there was nothing more to that story, he felt the need to hold onto it. It served as a stark reminder of his ignorance, as well as evidence of another side to her, one he would have wanted to know. Too late to pursue it, but at least the memory of their time endured.

He entered the Tops and took his place behind the front desk just as the Chairman greeter glanced up.

"That took a while, boss," the other man remarked. "You missed the sketchy broad that flounced right in and went straight for Benny."

Swank drew his brows together as he fixed the greeter with a dubious stare. "Sketchy broad?"

"I was gonna inspect her, honest. But she moved fast, and when she caught up to Benny during his rounds, they had some kind of confrontation that led to him takin' her up to his suite."

"Wait. So… Benny's intending to bang some suspicious woman and you didn't try to stop them?" Swank demanded, red flags popping up left and right. All reminiscing of Brie took a backseat as his old Boot Rider instincts kicked in. "What did she look like?"

"Come on, I wasn't goin' to tell the big boss what he could and couldn't do," the greeter said defensively. "And I'm not really sure what she looked like. She was wearing all this Wasteland gear. You know, armor, head gear, the whole shebang. Couldn't get a look at her face. Nice figure, though."

Swank pinched the bridge of his nose in an attempt to clamp down on his rising frustration. _Seriously, this greenhorn…_ "You realize that could've been the Courier we've all been hearing about? I got confirmation at Gomorrah that she's a woman. And you know rumor has it that she's targeting the Tops next."

The greeter blanched as it dawned on him. "Oh. Uh… well, shit. But Benny seemed to know what he was doin'…"

"Benny doesn't know what the fuck he's doing when his dick takes over all the thinking," Swank declared, grabbing the .44 magnum revolver from the lowest desk shelf and moving toward the main floor. "How long have they been up there?"

"Probably an hour at the most. But there hasn't been no ruckus or nothin'."

"Doesn't need to be. Loud or quiet, trouble is trouble," Swank answered, already covering swift ground.

He slid the handgun into the waistband of his slacks and hurried to the elevators. _Damn it, Benny. What the hell were you thinking when you know we've gotta keep this place on guard?_

Hopefully, it really was just some random Wasteland woman, and the worst thing Benny would get out of it was a case of the clap or something. Better that than some calamity befalling their casino. The Chairmen had always been on Mr. House's good side, but considering the lack of retaliation for the incident at Gomorrah, Swank harbored doubts about the New Vegas overlord intervening on the Tops' behalf in the event of an attack.

He rode the elevator to the thirteenth floor and noted the lack of Chairmen patrolling the area. His apprehension increased as he reached for the revolver, his fingers wrapping around the grip. The silence only fed the unease in his gut as he crept toward Benny's suite. Something about the atmosphere felt wrong, and he knew his worst fears had been validated even before he drew his weapon and kicked open the suite doors.

Several factors met his gaze at once. The first sank his stomach, and he cursed under his breath as Benny's lifeless eyes peered up at him from the carpet beside the fireplace, blood seeping from the knife gouged into his neck. Swank took in the dead man's nude state before turning to the only other individual in the room.

A scarred woman.

She reacted to his intrusion by cutting her dressing short and leaping behind the bar counter, but not fast enough. He'd seen them. There, on her bare back. The startling sight stayed his hand, kept him from firing.

Two vertical, wing-like scars glowed between her shoulder blades.

And flowing out from the marks, an invisible spectrum of light. A color he shouldn't have seen. A trick of the mind.

Infrared.

As he struggled to recover from the shock, she slapped a desperado hat over her head and aimed a sawed-off shotgun at him from her cover. Even so, he couldn't bring himself to do anything other than gawk. The shadows hid her features, but he noticed the veil of shortened auburn hair spilling down to touch her shoulders.

"Brie?"

The sound of the name caused her to freeze for a brief instant. In that time, the symbolic stars aligned, reversing the rotation of the world around him. Understanding and recognition sparked between them during the temporal warp. It ended in a flash, and she lowered the gun to vault over the counter, dashing toward him as one brown iris gleamed from beneath the brim of her hat. He remained paralyzed on the spot as she seized his wrist in a vicelike hold, preventing him from turning the revolver on her again.

“You’re asking for someone who doesn’t exist anymore,” she hissed in an unidentifiable voice. Yet, the perfect lips that spoke the words practically gave her away. Without granting him any time to process that, she went on, “Meet me at the Lucky 38 on your next free night. Tell anyone who gives you problems that the Courier is expecting you.”

Dual identities verified, she sprinted out the front doors. Swank managed to lodge himself out of his stasis to jog unsteadily after her. He witnessed her disappear around the corner down the hall toward the rear elevator, and as he approached, he spotted the unconscious forms of the Chairmen on watch, all sprawled in a pile behind the synthetic shrubbery.

Skidding to a halt, he allowed her to flee. All of it had occurred so fast, and he still didn't know which development to address first. Benny's death? The Tops security compromised? The Courier's vendetta? Brie's resurfacing?

No.

Swank clenched the wadded-up paper through his pocket, recalling the whispers between the Omertas he'd passed by earlier. And now he understood.

Brie was gone. But—

_"Gabriel's back."_


	3. Chapter 3

** Ultraviolet **

He flicked another cigarette butt to the ground near his feet, already lighting the next one between his lips. The brass lighter then snapped closed amidst a billow of smoke, and he slipped it back into his pocket while puffing hard on the fifth stick of quality tobacco. Behind him, the rest of the Strip pulsed with energy and lights, a city come alive beneath the dark Mojave sky. His eyes, however, remained fixed on the towering building before him.

Swank tightened his grip around the lighter as the wrenching sensation in his abdomen intensified. Indecision and anxiety shackled him to the spot, drawing the unreadable but vigilant attention of the Securitrons stationed at the entrance. He forced himself to move when the pressure built to an agonizing point, and he paced back and forth across the base of the flashing steps, wondering if she watched him now from that highest level above; the gateway to the stars.

Her words from several nights back echoed in his ears. It had taken him this long to follow her instructions, but even then he'd mustered only enough courage to reach this point. His shoes scuffed the filthy pavement as he halted and estimated the time he'd wasted out here. Nearly an hour, it seemed. He inwardly berated himself, thinking of the insanity likely occurring at the Tops in his absence. It remained the most popular venue on the Strip, and with Benny dead, the role of Chairmen leader fell solely to Swank.

He glanced over his shoulder at the establishment that now belonged and answered to him. In its cracked but sturdy walls, he saw his duty and legacy, the physical manifestation of his calling. Dozens of men looked to him now, eager to serve, optimistic for their future in the Three Families. And as he gazed at the roving marquee above the doors of the Tops, a sense of responsibility emerged to settle in his core, calming his nerves, switching his mentality. He paused, his posture straightening, and then took the cigarette from his mouth.

_The fuck am I doin'? Standing out here, twiddling my thumbs like some spineless punk. I've got a rep to uphold as the new head of the Tops. Big boss of the Chairmen. Elder of the Boot Riders…_

He dropped the cigarette and grinded it to ash beneath the sole of his shoe.

_And now's the time to pay a visit to the Slither Kin heir._

Swank sauntered up the bright, illuminated stairs, straight toward the maw of the Lucky 38.

The Securitrons gave him a brief scan before rolling aside to let him by. He blinked at the surprising ease of entry, but figured the Courier had already requested for his clearance. The robot guards said nothing as he passed between them, and he eyed the peculiar one featuring a cowboy image on its screen before he stepped through the doors.

A stale smell accompanied the deafening silence that greeted him once the entrance closed and locked at his rear. He surveyed the lobby cloaked in dimness, witnessing a place frozen in time. The majority of furnishings and machines appeared preserved in almost pristine condition, albeit a bit dusty from centuries of disuse. He strode farther inside, realizing the privilege of setting foot in this reclusive monument. No doubt others in New Vegas would envy the coveted position he found himself in. This marked the chance of a lifetime, and yet he'd come only for _her_.

The quiet stillness lent an uncanny aspect to his surroundings, and he kept his footfalls soft, as if hesitant to disturb the dead. He approached the console next to the elevator in the center, pausing as he read the notations for the floors. She hadn't specified on which level to seek her out, but his intuition pointed to the presidential suite denoted near the top. When it came to a wild card Courier with a vendetta, only the ruling pinnacle of the Strip sufficed.

Swank rode the elevator for what felt like eons. Although the contraption operated smoothly, the slow ascent worsened the apprehension. He folded his arms across his chest and leaned against one wall, scanning the corners for cameras, but finding none in the well-decorated space. Even so, he was unable to shake the feeling that unseen eyes followed his every move.

He wondered how Brie had gained enough favor with Mr. House to enter—much less reside in—his casino, a feat even the leaders of the Three Families had never accomplished. A mutually beneficial agreement seemed the most viable explanation, but if that were the case, he had to question what bargaining tool she possessed that Nero didn't. He thought again of her adoption and apparent inheritance, the questions only multiplying as his image of her grew ever more opaque.

The elevator trembled to an abrupt stop, and the doors slid open to reveal a lavish foyer. Jazzy music drifted from one of the rooms to the left, offering the first signs of human occupation since he'd entered the premises. Swank ventured a few steps inside, only to find himself greeted by the business end of a sniper rifle.

"Who're you?" demanded a man wearing a red beret and reflective sunglasses.

"I'm looking for Brie," Swank replied, staring past the barrel to size him up. _Nice getup there, 1st Recon. Didn't know the NCR let you goons run wild out of ranks._

"Who?" another voice asked, this one belonging to a Hispanic-sounding ghoul walking up from the right. "You must be lost, slick. I suggest you turn around and get out if you know what's good for you."

Swank stiffened when more bodies materialized from the various rooms, and his gaze flickered over to another man, two women, a hovering robot, a cybernetic dog, and, alarmingly, a nightkin blabbing nonsense to itself in booming tones. They surrounded him in a wide semi-circle, giving off a threatening aura at his intrusion. He searched for Brie past the wary faces, but saw no sign of her. His choices now equated to either taking the aggressive route or leaving.

"I'd have pegged him as a new guy if it wasn't for the lame-ass suit and hairdo," one of the women—the redhead—commented, sneering and using her own firearm to gesture at him. "You're a Chairman, aren't you? The hell are you doing here? We don't know a 'Brie,' so just take that elevator back down and keep on walkin'."

A sudden rush of irritation ran through him, and he restrained his temper as the dog began growling in warning. So they served as the security checkpoint, then. He took a few seconds to study each individual, calculating his odds of successfully forcing his way through. Although this crew was armed to the teeth, Mr. House—if the New Vegas magnate was smart—would grant him immunity here.

_Who do they think they're talkin' to?_

"Let's try this again," Swank rumbled, drawing himself up straighter as his patience evaporated. "I'm a busy man, and I don't got time to shoot the shit with you clowns. I'm supposed to be meeting the Courier. Ring a bell?"

The red beret glanced at the others and then lowered his gun when the bespectacled blond man motioned for it. "Gabriel?" he questioned, still suspicious. "Who's asking?"

"Unfinished business, that's who's asking. Got nothin' to do with her killing off my business partner. I've got my own bone to pick with her."

_So she's "Gabriel" to them, too, huh? Tough crowd she's leading. No wonder the Omertas are quaking in their boots._

And just when the tension escalated in the area, the longstanding source of his woes made her timely appearance.

"Boone. Guys. Relax," she called from behind her companions. "I told you I was expecting company."

They parted at the sound of her words, and from the master bedroom up ahead, she emerged, bringing a peculiar intensity to the atmosphere.

Swank fought to hold onto his annoyance over the inconvenience of the interrogation, but the sight of her bare features wormed straight into his heart. Unlike in the past, she now wore her hair brushed away from her face, openly displaying her puckered right eye, pattern of burn scars, and a new discolored pockmark on her forehead. The streak of gray along her side part had changed into a golden shade against the auburn, signifying evident improvement in her health. Her previous self-consciousness was absent, and a hint of defiant pride had taken its place.

Striding forward, she came to stand at his side, and he noticed through her casual attire the transformation of her physique. Muscular definition replaced the skeletal frame, bringing his attention to the strong contours of her arms and legs. An unnerving, dangerous edge pulsated around her, not necessarily toward anyone in the vicinity, but potent enough for him to sense. Her cool expression belied a certain anticipation for his presence, and the way she crooked her finger at him released a myriad of buried memories in his psyche.

Without thinking, he sidled closer to obey the call, spellbound once more like a moth to a flame.

"You recently killed the leader of the Chairmen. And now there's a Chairman here, boss," the ghoul retorted, crossing his arms over his utility suit. "We were taking precautions, is all."

"And maybe next time specify what company you're expecting," the woman in the brown hooded robes sighed. "I'd like to get through my day without having to cross-examine every stranger that walks in."

Some of the others murmured their agreement, but Brie dismissed them with a wave of her hand.

"No need to be cautious around this guy. Now that I've gotten rid of Benny, you're looking at the new head of the Tops," she proclaimed, motioning for him to follow her back inside the elevator. "All right, we've got things to discuss, so as you were."

Swank marveled at the drastic alteration to her personality as he ambled in after her, too entranced to ask for their destination. The assertiveness and detached coldness in her demeanor contrasted greatly with the delicate woman he remembered. Unable to speak, he studied her as she pushed a button for a different floor, a twinge of dismay leaping to the front of his churning emotions. Years of inquiries stormed through his skull as he stared at this stranger, whom he recognized but no longer knew at all.

And yet, as soon as the doors closed, something switched in her manner.

"I'm glad you finally came to see me," she stated with her back to him, the familiar marks between her shoulder blades peeking out through the racerback design of her gray shirt. "It's… been a long time, Swank."

A "long time," indeed. To him, eternity.

He faltered a bit, uncertain how to interact with her at this point. "Yeah… no kidding," he remarked, inwardly cursing the hitch in his voice. "Five years to the day."

Not that he'd been keeping track.

A palpable tautness stretched between them as the elevator began its ascent, and when she did rotate to face him, the Courier persona had receded. His chest clenched at the glimpse of a past staring him straight in the eye, the collision between memory and reality dizzying in its impact. It gave him hope that the woman he'd known still resided beneath the surface, existing, enduring, despite the change to the exterior.

Tone softening, Brie said, "You're looking well."

 _Small talk? Really?_ Swank shuffled his feet as he tried to think of a suitable response. "Can't complain, all things considered."

She shifted her line of vision to the floor. "Listen, I'm not sure how much of a friend you considered Benny, but about what happened… he had it coming. I'll leave it at that."

Benny had had a lot of things coming, but Swank refrained from asking her to specify. He noted her typical affinity for ambiguous explanations, bristling at the one aspect that had stayed the same. She stood there before him, more of a mystery than ever. Still, everything about her lured him in, the magnetism as strong as it had always been. And as the need for answers reached the breaking point, he drew nearer to tower over her smaller form.

"What are you doin' here?" he demanded. "You'd escaped. You were free. Why'd you come back and start all this trouble?"

A moment of hesitation passed. And then, "I'd always meant to come back," she returned quietly.

Swank felt a frown tugging at the corners of his lips. "For the Omertas?"

The hum of the elevator filled the silence as she fixed him with an indecipherable expression. "For New Vegas."

The foreboding statement hung over them, but the elevator halted before he could request an elaboration. Without missing a beat, she inclined her head toward the opening doors and led the way into a vast, circular space of glass and ambient lights. Swank forgot himself as he followed her down a nearby staircase, gawking at the sight of the illuminated Strip through the giant polygonal windows. Nothing else in the entire Mojave compared to the view. He was actually here, the highest peak of Mr. House's domain. It felt like the throne, and the rest of the world lay so far below.

Brie ignored the Securitrons guarding the floor and walked all the way to one secluded seating area on the wraparound balcony. A gust of dry wind blew over them as the noises of the Strip floated up to reach their ears. She came to a stop near the railing and gestured for him to take a seat on one of the sofas, although she declined to do the same. He chose instead to lean against the back of an adjacent armchair, preferring to stay on his feet close by.

"You'll have to excuse the attitude I put on when I'm the Courier," she declared, the soft material of her tank top fluttering in the breeze as she bent forward to fold her arms over the railing. "As far as everyone outside this penthouse knows, I'm a bloodthirsty hellion that can't be tamed. And it's a reputation I cultivate on purpose."

Swank's eyebrows rose. "So it's just a front?"

She gave him a sidelong glance. "After everything you've seen, I'm surprised you haven't asked what _isn't_ a front when it comes to me."

A fair point, but in spite of the inscrutable element surrounding her, he wanted to believe that the Brie he'd first met had been genuine in some capacity.

His fingers dug into the leather of the chair behind him, composure returning as he grew more acclimated to her company. "Doll, I spent the past few years wondering who and what the hell you really were. Only thing I could do was hold onto the parts you showed me, real or not." He watched as disquiet raced across her countenance, a semblance of remorse peeking through the cracks. "But when it comes down to it, you didn't show me a damn thing, Brianna."

She jolted, gaze snapping to him. Her mouth opened as if to demand how he'd obtained the information on her birth name, but she cut herself off when she read the answer on his face. "You went to my old room in Gomorrah."

"Heh. Pretty convenient how that adoption form was sitting out in the open."

Brie pursed her lips. "I'd meant to grab it the night I fled, but didn't get to because one of the girls sounded the alarm," she replied. "I would've thought Nero had taken or destroyed it after I left."

Swank shrugged, recalling Nero's volatile state after her disappearance. "He had your room under lockdown when you ran off," he told her. "Nothin' went in or out until the receptionist gave me the key just recently."

She contemplated that and then nodded, looking back out at the expanse of the Strip. "Well, it doesn't really matter because I filched his copy right after I gunned him down." Another short bout of silence passed before she heaved a sigh and propped up her chin with her palm. "I had a lot of loose ends to tie up here, Swank. That included coming back to take what was supposed to be mine."

He stared hard at her, his fingers edging toward the pack of cigarettes in his pocket. "You wanted me to come over just to tell me that? So can I at least get your story now or you gonna leave me hangin' again trying to piece you together?"

The corner of her mouth twitched. "Admit it, you loved trying to figure me out. That was why you kept 'seeing' me back then, wasn't it?"

Swank's eyes narrowed as he thought of the circles she'd had him running, the dead ends, the frustration. Although he'd tolerated it then, his mentality no longer accepted the perpetual guessing game. She had never grasped the depth of his infatuation, as evidenced by her casual comments and lack of understanding for his standpoint. Several choice words describing his disgruntlement came to mind, but he opted for a clearer approach in relaying the message.

Closing the distance between them, he reached out and trailed the pads of his fingers over her facial scarring, a gesture he'd done so many times in the past. Brie tensed in an unchecked reaction, suddenly losing all semblance of the Courier's ego and confidence. He reveled in the familiar intimacy of touching her, remembering just how much he missed the feel of her skin. And before she could regain the upper hand in the confrontation, he moved his other arm around her to grip the railing, trapping her in his embrace.

"All I want to know," he murmured, leaning in until his lips hovered mere inches from hers, "is what an angel was doing locked away in that fucking hellhole."

Brie peered up at him, seeming to struggle with herself at his proximity. "Still on about that fallen angel theory?"

He smirked and ran his thumb along her jawline to tilt up her chin. "So prove me wrong."

The interest flashed in her dark brown eyes, but vanished just as quickly. They regarded each other in the brief stalemate, a multitude of unspoken thoughts glinting in their gazes. He sought a clue to her inner workings as he awaited her response, wondering if she knew she'd been cornered, with her story the only way out.

After a while, something gave.

She brought up a hand and pressed it into his chest until he released her. "I hate to burst your bubble, but I didn't drop out of the sky from some mythological paradise. I was dropped from my original tribe, the Ciphers, after my biological parents walked out on me. It's a sob story I don't like to bring up, but it's the reason I ended up adopted into the Slither Kin."

Swank's forehead creased as he took a step back, but at the same time, his pulse kicked into high gear. _She's actually opening up. Finally._ Trying not to sound too eager, he blurted, "Yeah, uh… can't say that's what I expected to hear."

Brie gave him a rueful smile. "The Ciphers are a very science-based people. They speak in math and statistics, and anything they can't solve, they reject. So after a few years of no one stepping up as my permanent caretaker, the elder managed to pawn me off to Nero's father, Giovani."

Swank frowned, bewildered. "What, those eggheads rejected you because of some science bull or somethin'? You'd think an orphaned kid would be a pretty simple issue."

She glanced to the side, the air stirring around her. "You'd think. But yeah, they were just waiting for the opportunity to cast me out."

"Well, shit. And out of all the goddamn tribes, it had to be the sketchiest one."

"The Slither Kin were a secret client tribe to us, but let me put it this way: the phrase, 'You break it, you buy it,' apparently applies to humans, too," Brie all but snarled, pinning him with a glower directed at some negative memory. "Giovani didn't like a line of chemical bombs the Ciphers developed for him, so while going on a rampage, he threw one that accidentally hit me while I was playing nearby. All this?" she drawled, raking her nails down her facial disfigurement. "This is what happens when mustard gas hits a child straight in the mug."

_"A client got angry."_

The original explanation for the burn scars echoed in Swank's head, and he stood there, stunned, as the double meaning sunk in.

"Only some quick negotiations between the two tribes kept them from wiping each other out. Giovani took me in as a gesture of mercy, a message that the family followed a code. He gave me a male name so I would live up to its strength, and he picked 'Gabriel' because I was 'The Messenger.' Fitting, to be honest, considering what it foreshadowed."

_The Courier._

"We broke ties with the Ciphers and relocated to the Mojave," Brie continued. "The rest of my childhood was rocky, and I had a lot of health problems because of our lifestyle. They had an effect on some aesthetic things until I got on corrective meds." She pointed to the once-gray streak in her hair.

_"Thyroid hormone imbalance."_

Swank rubbed the back of his neck, scowling. "That ain't even fair, makin' a kid go through all that. And growing up with Nero… I bet that didn't make it any easier, huh?"

Brie's features darkened. "He never saw me as his sister, adopted or otherwise. I was the intruder, the rival, and he always made sure I knew he was dominant. My fighting back made it worse, but I wouldn't give in, even if I got countless injuries, went through all kinds of abuse… and lost my virginity."

The mute sound of his heart dropping to his stomach interrupted all other thought processes. He'd always known Nero had been a poor excuse for a human being, but this just worsened that image tenfold. He almost wished the scumbag were still alive, if only for the chance to snuff him out himself.

Before Swank could vocalize his outrage, she went on, "It escalated when I somehow entered the line of succession. His mother, Catalina, decided she preferred me over her own son to lead the tribe after Giovani. What's worse, everyone else agreed."

Swank furrowed his brow, remembering Nero's obsession with oppressing her back in Gomorrah. "That's what I don't get. _What_ was it about you that got 'em all starry-eyed? For a tribe newcomer in those old days, winning hearts was rare. How'd ya manage to turn the family upside down?"

A strange gleam flickered to life in her pupils, but he knew before she spoke that this was one detail she would never disclose. Not on a conscious level. Even as he observed a split-second anomaly glint behind her, she gave no indication that she was even aware of her own unexplainable qualities.

"I really don't know," she answered, as he'd predicted. "But I ate it up, figured a nobody like me had a chance at making something of myself. I wasn't born Slither Kin, but I'd adapted so well into their ranks that they made an example of me. It wasn't hard. Become a savage, forget your morals, and you were set." She shook her head, gaze on the ground. "And then, in my mid-teens, I made a critical mistake."

He paused at the simultaneous hostility and regret in her tone.

"The Slither Kin followed one rule, and that was to never betray the family," Brie stated. "But I'd heard a rumor that my birth parents were looking for me. While I was scoping it out, I let slip Giovani's whereabouts to someone from an enemy tribe." She pierced him with a sharp look that twisted his insides. "The Boot Riders."

Swank stiffened at once, instinctive denial on his tongue. "Whoa, whoa, I don't remember hearing about any of this, and I knew our goings-on through and through." _That can't be right._

"Benny never told you about all of his dealings, did he?" Brie asked cuttingly. "He and I have… _clashed_ more than once."

He caught the subtle movement of her fingers, which brushed over the pockmark on her forehead before running through her hair.

"Still, though. How the fuck would he have gotten the dirt on you?" Swank demanded, still reeling from the knowledge of the Chairmen's alleged involvement.

"I don't know how he found out about my origins, but I was his key to the Slither Kin elder. We were all at war with each other back then. It's not farfetched to think that Benny worked every angle before making his move to take us down," she declared, glaring off into the distance. "The rumors, of course, turned out to be bullshit, and because of my stupidity, it ended in both Giovani's and Catalina's deaths. Only Benny and a few indispensables had infiltrated our camp, and we drove them out, but the damage was done. When word got out that I was responsible, it looked as if I'd conspired with the Boot Riders to get my adoptive parents out of the picture so I could take over. I lost everyone's trust, and Nero wasted no time with payback."

_"I owe a debt. A big one."_

Swank gaped at her. "So that last night I was with you, when you told me why you stayed…"

She nodded in confirmation. "I owed them everything because I was the one responsible. Nero took away my independence and freedom, carved these marks into my back as a symbol of our losses. One gash for Giovani, one for Catalina. They bound me to the family in every way possible. And you don't want to know the things he did to me after that."

No, he didn't. An overwhelming rush of pity and rage ran through him as he processed her anecdotes. The truths he'd always wished for had surfaced at last, but now he realized how unprepared he'd been for their disturbing nature. They rocked him to his center, instigating a desire for retribution on her behalf. However, he reigned in the vengeful spiral, for those responsible already lay buried underground.

Brie leaned back against the railing, her voice far away. "The only reason Nero didn't kill me was that Mr. House approached us with an offer to join the Three Families. Nero accepted, sentenced me to a life as Gomorrah's premium whore, and that was how we became the Omertas." She grimaced and studied the ground. "I dealt with the punishment for a long time, Swank. But after spending a good chunk of my life putting up with it, I just… snapped."

_"Enough is enough."_

He watched as she regained her posture, her spine straightening with renewed vehemence as she paced back and forth in front of the railing. Another gust of wind encircled them in a manner not entirely natural. Her fingers trailed along the edge behind her, irises blackening to match the night.

"I'd made a mistake and I owed a debt, but there was a better way of making up for it. Giovani and Catalina would have agreed. The Slither Kin were _mine_. The Omertas were _mine_. 'Brie' was the repentant prisoner, but 'Gabriel' was 'The Messenger.' I could lead us into something better. And after years of preparation, I was ready to collect _my_ dues. _That_ …" she rumbled, sweeping her arm out toward the devastation of the Gomorrah casino, "…was my message to New Vegas."

Swank found no words to form any sort of adequate verbal reaction. He never would have guessed the complexity of her hardships, the trials and tragedies that molded her through the developing stages of her personality. Her comeback and success spoke volumes of her strong character, and looking at her now, he believed no one else had been so worthy of his admiration and respect.

"And this is where you come in. The reason I wanted you over here," Brie said, stopping in front of him. "Now that you know my background, maybe you can understand my and Mr. House's goals."

He moved closer, wary but curious about Mr. House's connection to her. "Uh, sure, I'm all ears. One thing, though. Who _is_ Mr. House? You ever actually seen the guy?"

A secretive smile played about her lips. "I'll introduce you sometime, but hear me out first. Things aren't finished changing around here. The Omertas—once I shape them up—will be at my beck and call. Marjorie of the White Glove Society is already onboard. And now that you're the head of the Chairmen, I have a proposition."

Swank took a moment to consider the sequence of events that led to this, and it dawned on him that Brie's actions on the Strip had been orchestrated to accommodate more than just her personal revenge. Whatever cause Mr. House had roped her into, it came with a new hierarchy that answered to a new set of parameters. And if he wanted a part, he had better learn his place on the chain.

He could play by those rules.

"All right, baby, shoot."

"You know about the large factions outside New Vegas. It's only a matter of time before the NCR and the Legion battle over Hoover Dam again. But us, the leaders of the Three Families… we're not exactly people to write off," Brie told him. "Mr. House has his own sights on the dam, and if the Three Families work together, I think we have a shot at taking it for New Vegas."

Swank quirked an eyebrow. "Aiming pretty damn high there with that ambition, Brie. It's gonna take a lot of work to reach the top."

"Have you looked around? I'm already at the top." She spread out her arms, standing as a reverse silhouette against the lights of the Strip. "I learned to fly, Swank."

He witnessed it again, a faint flicker of something almost ethereal at her back. The sight left him speechless, staggering in its own regard. She placed her hands on her hips, welcoming his scrutiny, the very picture of strength and influence. As understanding grew, he saw more than the woman and the Courier.

He saw a leader.

Swank stepped toward her, lured in by everything she represented. “So turning us into an actual alliance, huh?” he asked, rubbing his neck. “The boys are gonna take a bit of convincing, you know.”

Brie’s expression grew sultry as she reached for his tie and used it to tug him to her. “I’m sure you’ll think of something. If I didn’t think this was good for all of us, I wouldn’t have asked you. Besides,” she quipped, her lips ghosting over his, “I won’t be going anywhere this time. You’re one of the loose ends I left behind, Swank. What do you say I tie you right up?”

The provocation tested his restraint, and he edged forward until he had her trapped against the railing again, his hands gripping the metal on either side of her as their bodies pressed together. He leered into the enigmatic depths of her eyes, searching for any sign of reciprocation, any sign that she wanted this. She leaned into his touch when he grazed his knuckles against her cheek, the show of affection seeming genuine on her part. And as her gaze locked with his, some soundless communication transpired, telling him she’d had another priority, the one way into her elusive heart.

It had always been him.

He grabbed her by the waist and crushed her in his arms, kissing her so hard that their teeth collided. She chuckled deep in her throat and returned his fervor, skimming her nails across the skin beneath his collar as she pulled him even closer. They made up for the lost years in the span of minutes, losing themselves in the desperate, searing kisses that forged a new intrinsic bond.

When they separated, he took her hand in his and placed a kiss on her palm before they looked down together at the expanse of New Vegas.

“Never letting you go again, doll,” he remarked, grinning like the fool he knew he was.

“Don’t speak too soon,” she replied while entwining their fingers. “There’s nothing in this world that can cage me now.”

Swank froze when a pale iridescence—which both existed and didn’t—flowed out from the vertical scars on her back, casting a soft glow around her. He felt nothing physical when he reached out for it, but somehow, it clicked the last puzzle piece into play. Her history now made perfect sense.

“Say, Brie… angel or not,” he started, transfixed on the beautiful light of her spirit, “you’re callin’ the shots now, aren’t ya? Mr. House at your back, the Chairmen and White Gloves at your sides, you’re the ruling force of this whole damn place.”

“Hmm. You could say that.” She smirked at him, power and regality reflected in her eyes. “I’m the queen of the Strip, and New Vegas is my king.”

From the Mojave to the Capital, the Core Region to the Commonwealth, a new age had surged into motion. And at the helm, she led them. All would know her, heed her, submit to her.

The queen with the ultraviolet wings.


End file.
